Origins: Their Stories
by unofficialfansie
Summary: The Newsies weren't always Newsies. Chronicles their lives before the Lodging House.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

 **Hello! Here I am with the story I promised, _Origins Part 2_ (I couldn't come up with a better name, just go with it). I am starting with Crutchie, because he's one of my faves, and will eventually get to most of the other Newsies. I hope you enjoy this**

"Papa, look! I'm climbing!" 5 year old Charlie Morris cried as he clung to a tree branch. He and his father were spending the day in Central Park, enjoying his father's day off from working at the factory. Laughing, his father tilted his head up towards the tree. "I see that, Charlie. Be careful, now." "I will!" came the cheerful reply as he climbed higher. Suddenly, the branch under him snapped, and then he was falling, falling straight down towards the ground. Boom. He landed safely in his father's arms, breathless and shaken. "Charlie, I told you to be careful!" his father scolded. "Are you hurt?" Charlie felt all over himself, then shook his head. "No." Sighing, his father set him down. "What am I going to do with you?" "Dump me in the river?" Charlie suggested. His father looked at him for a moment, before bursting into laughter. "Come on, Charlie. Why don't we go get some ice cream?" Grinning happily, Charlie skipped off after his father, his small hand held in his father's big one.

"Papa, tell me a story!" a now 7 year old Charlie Morris whined. He was sick in bed with a high fever and aching bones, which was nothing new. Charlie had always been sickly, ever since he was a baby. His father turned to look at him, then sighed. "Alright, Charlie. Any story in particular?" "Tell me about Mama!" Charlie insisted, snuggling deeper under the covers. He loved to hear stories about the woman he bore a striking resemblance to. His father smiled sadly, nodding as he sat next to Charlie's bed. "Once upon a time, there was a beautiful woman who worked in a factory in New York City." "Like you!" Charlie piped up, yawning sleepily. "Yes, like me," his father agreed. "One day, she met a young man who also worked at the factory, and they instantly fell in love. After a brief courtship, they decided to marry, and their wedding was a grand celebration with all of their friends and family." "Was I there?" Charlie asked. "No, you weren't born yet," his father laughed. "Soon after their wedding, the woman gave birth to a handsome baby boy who looked just like her." "Was that me?" Charlie asked, yawning again. "Yes, it was," his father answered, then patted him on the head. "Enough talking. Go to sleep." Nodding, Charlie turned over in bed, quickly drifting off into a restful sleep.

"I'm sorry, but it looks like Polio," a doctor with a grim expression on his face said. "There's nothing I can do." Charlie's father nodded, placing a couple coins in the doctor's hand before showing him out. "Papa?" Charlie whispered. "Yes?" his father said, his voice overly cheery. "Am I going to die?" Charlie asked, his eyes filling with tears even though he tried to stop them. It was babyish to cry at 8. His father made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, then turned away from him. "Get some sleep, Charlie," he said, walking out of the room and closing the door behind him.

"There was an accident at the factory, Charlie. I'm sorry, but your father's dead." Charlie blinked at the man standing in front of him, the words not quite registering. "Papa?" he whispered. The man nodded. "There was nothing we could do. I'm sorry." Words came flooding back to Charlie, as clear as the day they were spoken. "I'm sorry, but it looks like Polio. There's nothing I can do." Charlie turned away from the man, making his way over to the kitchen table, his leg dragging behind him as he clung to the wall for support. "I'll buy you a crutch soon, Charlie," his father had promised. "I just need to save a little more money." Charlie sat down with a thud. He was so tired of people making excuses. The man was talking again, holding out an envelope as he babbled on and on about this being everything the factory had owed his father. Charlie nodded, taking the envelope and setting it on the table in front of him. The man stood there for a moment longer, before turning and hurrying out of the apartment, the door clicking closed behind him. Charlie stared at the envelope a moment longer, before putting his head in his hands and bursting into tears.

"Extra, extra! Train de-rails in Connecticut, injures thousands!" Charlie shivered as he watched a newsboy hawk the day's headline. It had been 3 months since his father died, and 2 months since he had been kicked out of their apartment for not being able to pay the rent. Now it was winter, and Charlie was wondering if he would be able to survive much longer, seeing as how he could barely walk. Turning away from the newsboy, he began to walk back to the alley he had claimed as a place to sleep. He had only walked a few feet when he tripped over a rock, going down in a large puddle. His attempts to stand only ended in him getting completely soaked, and he sighed, resolving himself to sitting in the puddle until someone took pity on him and helped him up. "Hey!" Looking up, Charlie saw the newsboy he had been watching earlier darting towards him, his bag of newspapers bouncing against his side. "Need help?" the boy asked, reaching out his hand. Charlie eyed him for a moment, before taking it and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. "Thanks," he whispered, his voice cracking from disuse. The boy eyed him, taking in his raggedy clothes and lack of a coat. "You have a place to sleep, kid?" he asked, his New York accent thick. Charlie shook his head, looking down at his feet. The boy grinned, looking pleased. "Well, then come home with me!" "Home?" Charlie asked, confused. "Yeah, the Newsboy's Lodging House!" the boy cried, grabbing Charlie's hand and pulling him along. "We'll get ya a decent meal and a bed, and then tomorrow I'se can show ya how ta sell papes!" Charlie nodded, feeling slightly dazed as he stumbled along behind the boy. All of those things sounded so foreign to him, he had almost gotten used living on the streets. Finally, after walking for what seemed like miles, they arrived at an old, slightly run-down building with the words Newsboy's Lodging House painted on the front. The boy grinned at Charlie, dragging him up the steps and in through the front door.

"Jack Kelly what're ya doin' back so late, and who didja drag with ya?" a tall boy demanded. Charlie shrank behind the boy - who's name was apparently Jack - in an effort to hide from this other boy, who did not look happy. "Hiya, Socks!" Jack grinned back. "How're ya doin'?" "Don't change the subject, Kelly," Socks replied, crossing his arms over his chest. Jack's grin faded, and he glanced back at Charlie. "What's your name?" he whispered. "Charlie," Charlie whispered back, not taking his eyes off of Socks' imposing form. Jack turned back to Socks, a grin plastered on his face once more. "His name's Charlie, and he didn't have any place ta sleep so's I told him he could stay here." Socks sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, Kelly. Find him a bed, and introduce him to the other boys." Jack nodded, practically jumping up and down with excitement. "Thanks, Socks! C'mon, Charlie!" He bounded off into the other room, yelling that there was a new Newsie to meet. Charlie stood in the hallway, looking around nervously. A Newsie? Him? Besides the fact that he couldn't walk very well, he didn't know the first thing about selling newspapers! Shaking his head, he turned towards the door. This had been a mistake. "Hey, where ya goin'?" a voice asked. Charlie turned to see Jack standing in the doorway, his brown furrowed with confusion. Charlie shook his head. "I uh, I can't walk very well," he admitted, gesturing to his leg. Jack's eyes widened in understanding, before he smiled. "Don't worry, I got an idea," he said, running back into the other room. He returned a moment later carrying a large piece of wood. "Race found this over at Sheepshead a few weeks ago, and he said I could have it. What if I made ya a crutch with it?" Charlie blinked, shocked that someone he just met would do that for him. Smiling, he nodded. Jack grinned, jumping up and down with excitement before running off to borrow Albert's pocketknife because "Crutchie needs a crutch." Charlie smiled at that. Crutchie. It suited him.

 **A/N: That was long! The next part should be up soon, so stay tuned. Oh, and I have another idea that I wanted to bounce off of people. So, I have been recently obsessed with Anastasia the Broadway musical, and I wanted to write a crossover Newsies/Anastasia thing. What do you think? Please let me know!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**

 **Next up we have Race! Yay!**

Anthony Higgins sat in the corner of his family's tiny one-room apartment. His mother sat at a table a few feet from him rocking his baby sister, Sara, who was crying uncontrollably. It was late at night, and a single candle burned in the window, the only light in the apartment other than the soft glow from the stove in the corner. Suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps was heard on the stairs, and Anthony sat up straighter, tensing. His mother glanced at him nervously, then began frantically trying to shush his sister, who began to cry louder. The door to the apartment suddenly banged open, and a tall man walked in, stumbling and cursing as he took a swig from the flask in his hand. He sat down in the chair across from Anthony's mother, which creaked alarmingly under his weight. For a minute, the only sound in the room was Sara's crying. Suddenly, the man slammed his fist down on the table, causing both Anthony and his mother to jump. "Shut that brat up, woman, before I do it for you," he growled, his murderous eyes showing that he meant every word he said. Anthony's mother's eyes widened, then she turned to him. "Anthony, take Sara while I get your father's dinner for him," she said, carefully placing her in Anthony's arms. Anthony nodded, standing and hurrying out of the apartment and out into the street. The air smelled dirty and foul out here, but at least Sara could cry in peace. He slowly rocked her, murmuring words of comfort, inwardly wincing at the heat coming off of her skin. Sara had been sick for a week with some kind of fever, and his family knew that without a doctor it was only a matter of time before she died. Sighing, Anthony looked up at the sky, catching sight of a few stars that poked through the clouds, and allowed his mind to travel far, far away from the hell that was his life.

Anthony stood next to his father, staring at the fresh grave in front of him. Marked with only a flimsy wooden cross with the words _Anna Higgins 1862-1888_ painted on it, this was where his mother was buried, right next to his sister _Sara Higgins 1886-1887_. Anthony sighed, turning away from the graves and following his father out of the cemetery and back to their apartment. He had seen too much death and felt too much loss for someone who had just turned five.

"Just leave. No one wants ya anyway, ya worthless brat." Anthony's father's words ran through his mind over and over again as he marched away from the only home he had ever known. _I will leave. I'll leave and become rich and famous and you'll be sorry you ever told me to go_ Anthony thought to himself. Now all he had to do was find a way to make his fortune. Looking around, he realized that he had wandered out of the quiet block of apartments where he lived and onto a bustling main road. He gazed wide-eyed at all the people hurrying around him, poor people dressed in nothing but rags, rich people dressed like kings and queens in fancy dresses and suits. Walking down the sidewalk, he eagerly drank in all the sights, sounds, and smells of the city he had called home all his life but never truly experienced. Walking faster, he smiled to himself as he thought about his new-found freedom. He could do anything, go anywhere, say whatever he wan- he stopped short at a gate with the words _The New York World_ written over it. Gazing up at the letters, he tried to decipher what they said. No one had ever taught him to read. "Hey!" Anthony looked up, startled. A teenage boy was staring at him, an amused expression on his face. "You buyin'?" Anthony frowned. "Buyin' what?" he asked. "Newspapers o' course," the boy answered, gesturing for Anthony to come closer. Anthony walked over, now more confused than ever. "What's your name?" the boy asked when Anthony reached him. "Anthony," came the simple response. "How old are you?" "Seven." This answer seemed to please the boy, because he smiled. "Got any money, kid?" Anthony shook his head, and the boy shrugged. "I'll spot ya a nickel, then. Name's Red. This here's my pal, Socks," he said, gesturing to the younger boy standing next to him. The line they were standing in moved forward, and Red slapped a few coins down on the counter, declaring he wanted "100 papes, and 10 extra for my friend here." Handing Anthony the papers, he placed his own in a bag by his side and began talking. "So, here's how it goes. You go out onto the street and try ta get people ta buy your papers by yellin' the headline." "What's the headline today?" Anthony asked. "Runaway horse and wagon kills two, injures five," Red answered, looking excited. "You go out, yell that ta get people ta buy your papers, and meet me back here when you're done." Anthony nodded. It seemed simple enough.

Three hours later, Anthony was wishing he'd asked Red more questions. Like how to get back to the distribution center. He had sold his papers easily, proving himself to be a natural newsboy, and had eagerly hurried back to show Red his earnings, but now he was fairly certain he was lost. Looking around at all the unfamiliar buildings, he nervously fingered the coins in his pocket. What if someone stole all his hard-earned money? He was just about to turn around and head back the way he came when a small boy looking to be a few years younger than him walked in front of him, blocking his path. "You from Manhattan?" the boy asked, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring in a manner that was extremely intimidating. Anthony nodded, and the boy rolled his eyes. "Just like Red ta let his boys wander through Brooklyn willy-nilly. Come on, I'll walk ya home." Anthony hurried after the boy, who walked quickly despite being so small. "I'm Anthony," he said after a while, and the boy nodded. "I know. Willy told me." "Willy?" "The leader of Brooklyn," the boy answered, and Anthony nodded, though he was still confused. "Spot," the other boy said after a while. "What?" "My name. It's Spot." Anthony nodded, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

"Well, here ya are," Spot announced unceremoniously. "Where's here?" Anthony asked, and Spot sighed heavily. "Newsboy's Lodging House. The place where all the Newsies in Manhattan stay." "Newsies?" Spot narrowed his eyes. "What are ya, stupid? Anyone who sells newspapers is a Newsie." "Oh." Anthony gazed up at the building, feeling very small and out of place. Spot sighed again, and grabbed him by the arm. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

"Extra, extra! Man pushed in front of train, authorities baffled!" Anthony grinned to himself. After a full year of practicing, he could read and hawk the headlines all by himself, he had friends in Manhattan and Brooklyn (though Spot Conlon would disagree), and he had a new name. Racetrack, or Race for short, due to the fact that he liked to sell his papers over at Sheepshead Races. Reaching in his bag for another newspaper, he grinned again as he held it high and shouted the headline. He might not have been rich or famous, but he had shown his father. That was certain.

 **A/N: What is it with me and killing off people's sisters? I wish I knew. Anyway, please review this, and let me know if you think I should write about Romeo or Specs next. I can't decide. Also, I published my Newsies/Anastasia crossover thing so please go check that out and show it some love! See ya!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:**

 **Hello! I've been MIA for a bit, school has just been hell lately, but it's almost break and some inspiration has struck me! Here is Romeo's origin story, it's a long one! Enjoy!**

The room was dark, cold, and smelled awful. Stephen lay on his bunk, trying unsuccessfully to get warm under the threadbare blanket he had been provided. Around him boys coughed and sniffled, the sudden cold snap having caused many of them to get sick. Suddenly the door to the room swung open, and a guard tossed a young boy into the room, quickly closing the door behind him. The boy lay on the floor where he had fallen for a moment, then slowly sat up, wincing slightly and rubbing his shoulder. Stephen watched him, his dark brown eyes burning with curiosity. The boy slowly stood, then looked around the room. Spotting Stephen, alone on his bunk, he slowly approached him. Stephen shrank back under his blanket, shying away from the beating he knew from experience was coming. The boy noticed, and stopped a few feet from the bed, a cautious expression on his face. "Easy, kid. I ain't gonna hurt ya." He gestured to the space on the bed next to Stephen. "Mind if I sit?" Stephen considered him for a moment, then gave a barely perceptible nod. The boy gave a small smile, then slowly lowered himself onto the bed, letting out a soft grunt as he did so. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then the boy turned to him. "Jack Kelly, you?" Stephen looked at him for a moment, before slowly shaking his head and pointing at his mouth. Jack's brow furrowed in confusion, and Stephen could tell he didn't understand. He pointed to his mouth again, then shook his head, making his movements much more exaggerated. Understanding dawned on Jack's face. "You can't talk, huh?" Stephen shook his head again, looking down at his lap, his cheeks burning. Though his time in the Refuge had long since stolen his voice, he was still embarrassed that he couldn't even hold a conversation with this boy, who had been much nicer to him than the other boys. Jack considered him for a minute longer before shrugging and lying down, pulling as much of the blanket as he could over himself while still leaving plenty for Stephen to sleep under. Stephen looked at him, stunned. The Refuge was something of a free for all, and most of the other boys would have stolen his blanket, seeing as how he couldn't complain about it. Not Jack. Following his lead, Stephen stretched out and lay down to sleep too, being careful not to disturb Jack, who had already drifted off.

Stephen let out a harsh cough, his eyes watering and his chest feeling as though it would break apart. Jack glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, concern flitting across his features. "You okay, kid? Been coughin' an awful lot lately." Stephen nodded, sniffing loudly. This triggered a long coughing fit, with Jack rubbing his back in between his shoulder blades and murmuring words of comfort. When he was finished, he leaned up Jack, thoroughly exhausted and breathing heavily. Jack hesitated, then placed his hand on Stephen's forehead. Stephen jumped slightly at the sudden touch, then relaxed when he realized it was just Jack. Jack sighed, resisting the urge to curse loudly when he felt how hot Stephen was. "You'se burnin' up, kid. How long ya been feelin' sick?" Stephen shrugged, and Jack sighed again but didn't push it. He helped Stephen to lie down, covering him as best he could with the threadbare blanket they shared before starting to stand. Stephen grabbed Jack's hand, his eyes asking a single question. Startled, Jack nodded, quickly sitting back down. "Okay, kid. I'll stay with ya." Stephen smiled sleepily, his eyes fluttering closed as he drifted off into a restless sleep with Jack holding his hand.

Jack stood frozen in front of the run-down old building, his heart hammering in his chest as he stared up at it. When he had been released a week ago he had sworn to himself he would never come back, yet here he was. His breathing became shallower and he almost turned and ran, but as he glanced down at the pile of blankets in his hands he thought of the little boy who desperately needed them and he took a step forward, eyeing the fire escape at the side of the building.

Stephen was lying in bed in a fever-induced dreamless sleep when a loud clanging noise startled him awake. Looking over at the window, he saw Jack standing there, a small grin on his face. Excitement building, he sat up and tried to stand but was suddenly racked by coughs. For at least a minute he sat there coughing, and when he was done he sat back, his chest burning and his head spinning. Looking at the window he saw that Jack was still standing there, though his grin had faded. More determined this time, Stephen slowly pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to the window, ignoring the pointed glares and insults from the other boys. Wrenching it open Stephen took in the sight of Jack, who looked to him like a heroic prince preparing to climb a tower in a fairy tale. Offering him a small smile, Stephen leaned against the windowsill for support and looked at Jack expectantly. Jack opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. "Here, I brought you some blankets. Gets pretty cold here at night, wanted to make sure you were warm enough." Stephen took the blankets quickly, the gratitude he could never speak shining in his eyes as he looked at Jack. Jack gazed at him a moment longer looking as if he wanted to say something, but he seemed to think better of it because he shook his head and turned away from the window, mumbling something about coming back the next week.

When Jack came back the next week Stephen was worse. Much worse. The blankets Jack brought hadn't done anything to lower his fever, and he now spent most of his time coughing or sleeping. He was too weak to get out of bed as well, and had earned more than a few beatings because of this. Jack took in the sight of him, lying pale and feverish on his bed, and felt sick. He didn't bother knocking on the window, because he knew it would only get him caught. He stood for a moment longer, thinking hard, before turning and running back the way he had come.

When Stephen woke up he was wrapped in soft blankets and lying on a soft mattress. _I'm dead,_ he thought. _I died in the Refuge and this is Heaven._ He opened his eyes slowly, not sure what to expect. When he opened his eyes the room came into focus, and he looked around curiously. Wherever he was, it certainly didn't look like Heaven. He was lying on a bed in a small room lined with neatly made bunk beds. It looked to him like a much nicer version of the Refuge, which only confused him more. He was just about to get up and look around when a door on the other side of the room opened and a boy who looked to be a year or two older than him walked in. He stopped short when he saw that Stephen was awake, then his face split into a grin. "Well, well, well. Welcome back to the land of the livin', kid."

Stephen stood on his street corner, holding the paper out in front of him and batting his eyes flirtatiously at the woman standing in front of him. She considered him for a moment, before dropping a dime in his hand and taking the newspaper from him. Stephen turned to his selling partner, a boy named Race, and proudly held up the dime. Race chuckled, ruffling Stephen's hair as he pocketed the money. "Damn, kid. Guess we'll have ta start callin' you Romeo."

"Romeo!" Race yelled as he was dragged down the alley by one of the Delancies. Romeo watched, helplessly trapped by the other, as Race was shoved up against a wall. He watched as Race was punched in the face repeatedly, even when he started to bleed heavily. Romeo tried to break away and go find Jack, but he was held fast. It was only when Race was dropped to the ground and repeatedly kicked that something inside him broke. "Race!" he yelled, surprising even himself with the sudden shout. The Delancies stood frozen with shock for a split second, giving Race the upper hand he needed. He knocked them both the ground, grabbed Romeo tightly, then sprinted out of the alley. They ran for what felt like hours, until finally Race ducked into an alley, pulling Romeo with him. They crouched next to each other for a minute, breathing hard, before Race glanced at Romeo and burst into relieved laughter. Romeo sat quietly for a minute, before joining in. Both he and Race laughed until they were gasping for breath and wiping tears from their eyes. _I've found my family,_ Romeo thought happily as he looked at Race. _And my voice,_ a small voice in the back of his head added. _Yes. And my voice._

 **A/N: I view Romeo as really talkative and loud, so I kind of wanted to explore the complete opposite of that for his origin. Also, it has occured to me that I should explain the timeline here, so I shall. Basically, I view Jack as 17 in 1899 (that's canon, so yeah), Crutchie and Race as 16, and Romeo as 14 or 15. Jack became a Newsie in 1891 when he was 9, and his sister died in 1892 when he was 10. Race became a Newsie in 1890 at age 7. This story is Jack's first time in the Refuge, and he's 12 so it's 1894. Romeo is 10. Hopefully that makes sense.** **Please review and let me know what you think!**


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